Under Du Weldenvarden's leaves
by DefiantFreedom
Summary: A series of one-shots about Arya, including some scenes that I felt were missing from the books. Warning: major spoilers if you haven't read all of the books
1. Promises

Arya sat on a window seat in a long-forgotten room in the corner of Uru'baen, playing with a strand of her hair, staring blankly out of the window. They had _won. _She knew that it would take her years to come to terms with that simple truth. Of course, that wasn't what was gnawing at her heart, what was dominating her mind and emotions, leaving her numb inside. A few raindrops fell on the window and she watched them, her mind elsewhere.

The promise she had made still rang in her mind; _"I will not die." _How ironic that had been, how strange that she, the one going into danger, following Eragon on a fool's errand, had lived and her mother, surrounded by elves and spellcasters and strong in sword and magic, with many more years of experience, had been the one to die. Arya had known somehow, that she would not perish, that she would endure, but the thought that her mother, the Queen, would die, was so unthinkable, so intangible that it had never crossed her mind.

Yes, she had worried, for her mother and the multitudes of other elves putting themselves in danger, but she hadn't really believed that her mother could ever die. Especially not now, not when they were just beginning to understand each other, to understand that the other cared. To have her brutally torn away, with not even a chance at goodbye, as her father had been so many years ago, didn't seem real somehow. She almost believed that her mother would enter at any time, scold her for sitting around when there was so much to do and then smile cautiously, as she had done so many times over the past few weeks, to take the sting out of her words. Arya buried her head in her arms. How huge, how hopeless to conceive, that her mother was gone, gone forever, that they would never again argue, never again talk of the world, that her mother would never again return to Du Weldenvarden and walk beneath the leafy green branches.

And still her promise rang in her mind, that ironic promise, taunting her with it's fulfilment. "No," Arya whispered, "it was not me who had to die mother, but you, even though you worried so and I did not, even though you were always cautious and I was not. You did not wish me to leave and perhaps, had I been with you, you would not have. I did not think, I..." she trailed off, still staring at the window. "Why did you do it? Why did you attack him? How did he win against you, mother? And how was it that _Roran, _who is human, prevailed where you could not? How could a human succeed where all the might of the elves had failed, twice? How did Eragon win where father failed and how did Roran win against such a monster?" She leant back against the wall, that one question refusing to leave her mind; how could Roran, a human, not even a spellcaster, win where her mother had failed, where countless elves had failed?

She returned her gaze to the window. Was that the price they had to pay, for ridding Alagaesia of Galbatorix? Her mother's life for theirs? More proof that no gods could exist in this world, that they would demand such a price, when her mother had sacrificed so much for their people? Sighing, she leaned her head against the wall, watching the rain trickle down the window, looking like tears.


	2. How do we carry on?

Arya looked at Eragon. "What do we do now?" she asked. He sighed, but didn't answer. "My whole life dedicated to this," she muttered. "An empty room, with two of the most important people in Alagaesia hiding from the crowds." She glanced at Eragon. "How did you win?" she asked. "Against all the odds, what keeps you going?" He sighed again and when he began it was not where she had expected.

"When my uncle died," he said quietly, "I couldn't go on. I was alone, adrift in the world. Then Saphira urged me to look into my heart and see what I wanted." He paused. "And I saw that I wanted revenge. I wanted to kill the Ra'zac." Arya waited, silently. "Then I wanted to get to the Varden, to make sure that Brom was right, that I was a Dragon Rider, that I was the hope that the Varden had been waiting for. When Murtagh..." he trailed off, then began again. "When Murtagh went missing, I wanted to become better, to make sure that that would never again happen to someone that I counted family. Then Roran came and I went to rescue Katrina and kill the Ra'zac." This time there was a longer silence, but just when Arya was about to speak he continued. "That left me...curiously empty. I had achieved my first purpose, finally, and that had left me with an emptiness inside, where there had once been a purpose, a driving _need _ to accomplish something. That is all life is, Arya, to find a great purpose to fill our lives and then to go on and find another, and another, until we draw our final breath. I chose to continue fighting for what was good a long time ago and that is what I will continue to do until the day I die."

Arya was silent for a long moment. "So that is all that you wish to accomplish?" she asked.

"No. There is something else that I wish, but it will take many years and much patience." He smiled at her. "But I'm willing to wait."


	3. Did you love him?

_After the chapter 'Shadows of the past'_

* * *

><p>Arya lay awake for many hours that night, staring at the distant stars above, their conversation replaying over and over in her mind.<p>

"_Did you love him?"_

Such an innocent question, a marked contrast to the memories and questions it had sparked. And then her sense of honour had compelled her to add what she had not wished to, revealing more than she ought to have.

"_How would you define love?"_

Had she really asked that question? Of him? Even if he had considered it rhetorical, it was still saying more than she was comfortable with.

She turned over, trying to get comfortable, and found herself staring at Eragon. _Did he know? _She wondered. _Had he guessed? _Guessed that maybe her question was honest, and heartfelt?

How would he define love? She knew that he loved her, or at least thought he did, and she wanted to know what he thought that it was, because she had no idea.

Not now.

Not after Fäolin had died.

Not after something in her had died, at the hands of that thrice-cursed, dark-spawned, drajl Shade.

She shook her head. No. She did not want to remember that. Those long days of pain and grief, and the memory of Fäolin falling, dying, and being unable to run to him, unable to do anything but try to run from that Shade and the constant, nagging feeling that she had failed him. And then the terror that she would never be found, never rescued, the conviction that her mother would not search, that the Varden would not know where to begin searching.

_Enough! _She told herself sternly. _Don't think of him now. Rest, sleep, wake up tomorrow, and get that idioticly heroic Rider back to his dragon. _She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and save her from such dark thoughts.

And for once it did. Memories ruled her dreams, as they almost always did nowadays, but instead of dreaming of the Shade or Fäolin's death, she dreamt of the time that they had had together, walking beside the river, his laugh on the wind, and the passion in his eyes when he spoke of the return of the Rider's, and the slight bemusement when she wondered what he would think of Eragon.

But still in her dream echoed Eragon's question, insistently, perniciously;

"_Did you love him?"_


	4. Too much of my father

I sat down on my bed, in my own rooms again, at last, feeling curiously empty. I had been dreading this moment ever since I woke up in Tronjheim – the moment when I met my mother again.

The last time that I had spoken to her properly – as a daughter to her mother – we'd been arguing. But then, there was nothing especially odd about that, was there? I laughed bitterly. No, my mother and I had always argued, much as my mother and father had always argued, but there was one difference between my father and I.

My mother would never have refused to acknowledge my father as family.

Oh no, she loved _him._

I sighed, standing and restlessly walking around the room, picking up books and then putting them down again, still...unsettled by what had happened.

I had walked in there, ready to be treated as I always had been, and dreading it. I mean, I had gone missing, and they had found Fäo – I winced, still finding it painful to think of him – my guards slain. I hadn't wanted her to just treat me as an ambassador, but I hadn't been expecting her to...well, to accept me again.

I wasn't sure I was ready for us to be family again.

70 years is a very long time, after all. When I first left I hadn't expected us to be estranged for so long, but as the years passed, and she was still as distant as ever, well, I began to think of her as family less and less, until she was just a vague and distant figure that I had never really known, residing under the title of 'queen'.

I became more of an ambassador and less and less of a princess...or a daughter, and she became more of a queen and less of a mother.

I could still vaguely remember my father. I could still remember his voice and his laughter, but as time passed his face became more and more difficult to recall. His death was the catalyst, I think. My mother was broken by grief, and I was still too young to understand.

That was when she started to become distant. I never understood it when I was growing up, never understood why her work and her duty became more important to her than I was.

But I understand it now.

_Oh yes, _I thought grimly. _I understand it now. _

You see, I had far, far too much of my father in me.

And that was the one thing that my mother could not bear.

* * *

><p><strong>This is the first part of three one-shots, all set on the night when Arya returns to Ellesmera.<strong>


	5. My mother and my father

_Part Two_

I smiled, closing the book. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed reading books that weren't entirely historical, and actually had some context to them, unlike human's books, which seemed to all follow a very similar pattern of a hero (who will typically think with his sword instead of his brain) rescuing a fainting princess from some evil (which is hardly ever properly explained and usually down to some curse by a sorcerer) and then falling deeply in love with the hero. The King will be so overjoyed at his daughter's return that he won't object and they will promptly get married, and presumably live happily ever after.

Whereas, the book that I had just finished reading was very different. It spoke of a dragon and rider, outcast from the Riders because of a terrible mistake, befriending a young human boy who also has trouble fitting in with the rest of the village, being cursed with a stammer. The rider attempts to help the boy from afar and ends up rescuing the village when it was attacked by urgals. The boy wins the respect of the villagers because he attempted to bravely fight off the urgals and the rider gains the courage to return to Vroengard and try to prove himself a Rider again.

It doesn't have an entirely happy ending, as it does not say if the rider is accepted by his brethren, or if the boy is ever actually accepted by the villagers, but I read it often when I was growing up, and it is nice to return to those uncomplicated times for a while.

I sighed. When I was very young, my father would knock on my door at this time, and then read me a story of my choosing until I fell asleep. I could only barely remember those times, being so young when I lost my father. I didn't understand that he was gone, and would never return, until my next birthday, when he did not appear and present me with a gift.

My mother tried to compensate for his loss, but she had never been very good at reading stories and her duties as queen kept her very busy. I barely saw her except at mealtimes, and sometimes not even then, for most of my childhood.

My father was equally busy, but he was always willing to put aside his work and attend to me. As a child, I guessed that this meant that my mother had far more to do. Then I assumed that I simply meant less to her, and I continued to assume that until I left as an ambassador.

My mother's reaction that night frightened me. I had always thought that I was practically nothing to her, so I was prepared for any arguments about my inexperience, and I was capable of looking after myself, after all, so I would not be in terrible danger, but her reaction to my proposal verged on hysterical.

I believed that that was why she disowned me; she simply was not thinking clearly, but then the years passed. As I grew more distant from my mother, I was able to view her actions in a more objective light. Obviously I was important to my mother. She just did not know how to show me that she loved me.

I have cursed myself many times for my naïvety that night. She loved me then, yes. She loves me now? Also yes. Her reaction when I returned proved that. Her duty may have been easier to deal with than a rebellious daughter who was too much like her father, but she still cared for me, and I realised that now, after a couple of hours of hard thought.

70 years? A little harder to explain, I think.


	6. A choice

_Part Three_

I froze when I heard a knock on my door. I didn't have very many close friends in Ellesméra, and I instantly assumed that it would be either Eragon, or my mother.

I wasn't sure which terrified me more.

Whoever it was knocked again, hesitantly. I looked at the candle in my hand and then put it on the table, and made my way to the door.

I slowly opened it.

In the hallway, looking as though she half regretted coming, was my mother.

There was a long moment of silence.

I studied my mother. She didn't look like a queen. She looked...scared. Vulnerable. She looked how I felt, confronting her after she thought I was dead. I remembered what she'd said earlier, and the feeling that she was being truthful and genuine.

I remembered the amount of times that I'd cursed myself over the years, for never realising, never understanding, just how much she loved me.

I remembered how she looked when she saw me – as though her worst fear and greatest hope had come true at the same time. I remembered what I had been told, just after entering Du Weldenvarden - _"She was – and is – sick at heart." _I knew that my absence had pained her.

And then I knew.

I had a choice.

I could shut her out, like she had done to me for 70 years.

I could continue to stand in the doorway, making it clear that she wasn't totally forgiven yet.

Or...

I opened the door wider. "Come in."


	7. Skilna Bragh

Arya could feel the poison working it's way through her veins, burning in her blood. If she had the energy she'd be tossing and turning, but she didn't so all she could do was wait and cling to the small thread of hope that was getting thinner by the second.

In Gil'ead she'd lost all hope of rescue, resolving only to die before she revealed anything to her captors.

Then she'd looked up and seen the boy standing in the door to her cell, and she knew that the time had come, that he was taking her to Galbatorix. But, as she collapsed, she noticed that his eyes were kind and his expression distraught.

She'd known he was a Rider the second he touched her mind, but she had fought back in fear that he was one of Galbatorix's servants. When she found out otherwise, hope had filled her again, as it had during the first days of her captivity, but it soon dwindled.

He was so young! And he was taking so long to get to the Varden that she began to fear that he would never make it and she would die, just when she'd been rescued, an ironic turn of events equal to any of the great tragedies that she had read when she was young.

She took another gulping breath, fighting for each gasp of air. The poison was sapping her strength, and soon she wouldn't have strength even for that. The only thing that kept her going, apart from the slim hope that she might reach the Varden, was the knowledge that she couldn't die and face Fäolin unless she had given everything to their cause.

She didn't know why this would trouble her – she didn't believe in the afterlife and Fäolin would never blame her – but it was the only thing that made her fight the heaviness weighing down her chest enough to take a quick gasp of air.

She could almost see him in front of her: a figure outlined against the forest he loved. He smiled at her gently. _"Come on, Arya," _he whispered, taking her hands. _"You can't die now. You'd never forgive yourself." _The absurdity of her situation hit Arya – not only was she dying, but she was also losing her mind – and she used that laughter, that sudden love for life, to keep breathing. _"Eragon's nearly there. You just need to fight for a little longer." _

Arya took another breath, feeling the weakness in her heart, faltering in it's beat. Fäolin was gone now, and the aching loss tore at her again. She would have cried, if she had the strength. She tried to take another breath, but the weight on her chest was suddenly too heavy, and she didn't seem to mind anyway, as the blackness pulled her down.

Later, when she awoke in Tronjheim, she would cry for the peace that she had lost, and Fäolin and Glenwing, and everything she had suffered at Durza'a hands. And then she would shake her head, and put on her mask, and go rescue the young Rider from the Twins. And she would think of her mother, and Du Weldenvarden and feel relief at being there again, soon.


	8. Unfair

**This is set after Arya breaks Eragon's fairth of her and after the Blood-oath celebration in Eldest**

* * *

><p>Arya woke abruptly, a scream caught in her throat, her hands clutching at the sheets. She gasped for breath, waiting for the hammering of her heart to slow. She closed her eyes, feeling tears threatening.<p>

She didn't want to cry about this. Not again. Hadn't she wasted enough tears already? She shook her head, angrily wiping at the tears with the back of her hand and staring at the ceiling. _It's funny, _she thought bleakly, _when I was actually there, I never cried. I just coped. But now... _

She sat up and swung her legs out of bed. She'd go walk under the trees for a while, and hope that the noises of the forest would soothe the night terrors. She'd barely slept for a whole night since returning to Ellesmèra, and even knowing that Durza was dead, that Saphira had hatched, that her mother had accepted her and she was safe here in Du Weldenvarden could not stop her dreaming.

Every single night she saw Fäolin die, or suffered at the hands of Durza. She knew that it was beginning to show. Only yesterday she'd snapped when Eragon had made that fairth of her, and she knew that if she had been fully in control then it never would have happened.

She opened the door and slipped out, her mind uselessly retracing old memories. She'd been so stupid! She should have noticed the way he was becoming infatuated with her and put her foot down, stopped him in his tracks. He didn't mean anything by it. He couldn't know why the fairth had been so painful for her.

Fäolin had made a fairth of her once, calling her beautiful and citing his fairth as proof. She'd accused him of 'looking at her through rose-tinted spectacles' and he'd just laughed. Later he'd brazenly confessed his love for her, and then she had laughed and affectionately called him foolish. He hadn't cared; he knew he'd won. He knew he'd shocked her.

Arya shook her head angrily. Could she not even think in a straight line anymore? The point was, she wasn't getting enough sleep. She hoped that Eragon hadn't noticed that she was acting oddly; she knew that Oromis had. And her mother probably had as well. Arya sighed. Something needed to be done.

* * *

><p>Arya collapsed on her bed, tears already rolling down her cheeks. They were both so similar! The elves had been celebrating when Fäolin had confessed his love as well. <em>The fool, <em>she thought bitterly. _Can't he see how much it hurts for him to go around acting like a love-sick idiot all the time? I don't enjoy ripping his heart to shreds. Couldn't he just forget me? Is it so difficult for him to just focus on his studies? _

She'd been amazed when she saw what the dragons had done, but then he had to go and ruin all her enjoyment of the celebration. She'd never be able to think of the Agaetí Blödhren now, without remembering all of this guilt and shame.

She turned and buried her face in her pillow, ignoring the sounds of the elvish celebration outside her window, shaking with silent sobs. It wasn't fair, for him or her. Why did he have to be so like Fäolin? Why did he have to fall for her? And the worst question of all – what was she going to do?

Even though she was loathe to contemplate the idea, Arya knew she'd have to leave. Leave, and hope that Eragon would forget her. Even as she speculated about packing she felt resentful that she should be driven away when she had only just been reunited with her mother; it was her home after all and it was his fault. _It's not fair, _she thought.

However, she of all people knew that nothing in life was fair.


	9. Solace

**Set after Islanzadi's death, in the tower where they all met to decide who the next ruler would be. More from Eragon's perspective than Arya's**

* * *

><p>Arya said the most when she was silent. You couldn't listen to the words she said, because if Arya was anything then she was a diplomat, and she hid herself behind so many masks, but you could listen to what she didn't say.<p>

Eragin had learnt to listen to her silences, whether it be the amused silences, when he'd done something stupid again, or the angry silences, when he'd said something wrong, or the thoughtful silences when he'd said something meaningful and surprised her, or even the sad silences, such as the one now.

As they sat in the tower where Nasuada had just been proclaimed queen, watching the sun sink lower on the horizon, he mused that he'd also learnt to listen to the words she didn't say. Like now.

She hadn't said that she wasn't fine, or that he needn't worry; she'd said that he _shouldn't_ worry.

She hadn't said that she missed her mother, but that didn't mean that she didn't.

So now Eragon was listening very, very hard, waiting for another word that she wouldn't say.

He'd offered his condolences, yes, and she'd accepted them politely, formally, but not really.

He had the feeling that nothing he could say would mean anything to her.

Because she hadn't said that she wasn't feeling guilty, either, and he _knew _Arya. In fact, he was probably one of the few people left who actually knew her at all.

And he knew that she would hate the fact that she hadn't been with her mother, hadn't been able to protect her mother, that she'd been protecting him instead.

So he'd sat down next to her, and now he sat watching the sunset with her.

He carefully reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. She glanced up at him, her emerald eyes swimming with sorrow. He thought very quickly; he didn't want to say something wrong here. Saphira was a constant presence in his mind, watching what he was going to say with the same intensity that he was.

"I know that there's really nothing I can say," he said slowly. "I've lost people that I care about, and I know that saying 'sorry' doesn't work, and I know that saying 'I understand' doesn't help either, but I'm going to say them anyway." He paused, wondering if he should go on – she still hadn't said anything, or even done anything – but he decided to keep going.

"So I'm sorry. And I understand how you're feeling. And I know that you probably just want to be left alone, but I'm saying this because I want you to know that I'm here and I understand, and I don't mind if you cry or if you just walk away, as long as you know that."

Arya still didn't move, but she didn't leave, which he guessed was a good thing. Just as he resigned himself to the fact that he'd done something wrong, she moved. She looked up at the stars and let out a shaky breath.

She didn't say anything, but her silence spoke a thousand words, and as she leaned into his shoulder, Eragon could understand every single one of them.


	10. My Guardian Angel

Arya drifted in and out of consciousness, not that she could really tell the difference any more. The Shade would appear even in her dreams now, to try and force her to give up the location of Ellesmèra.

He didn't know that she would never give up. She would rather die than betray her people.

She had told him that, when he had first captured her, but he had just laughed, saying she would change her mind soon enough.

And now that that time was approaching – the time when she must either break or die – she realised that she didn't fear it.

She'd come too close to death too many times to fear it now. She almost welcomed it, in fact, and her pain-racked mind struggled to think of a reason why she shouldn't just give up.

She thought with frustrating slowness, gradually piecing together memories and old hopes and dreams.

_A dragon egg, _she thought finally. _There was a dragon egg. _She knew she had sent it to safety, though she dared not think his name, but she had wanted to see dragon riders in the sky again, she remembered.

* * *

><p>She had wanted so much, once.<p>

Now, with pain and delusion distorting her thoughts, all she wanted was to know the answer to one question.

She had felt a presence watching over her many times now, as her fevered mind reached for solace wherever she could find it.

She didn't know who, or what it was, or even if it really existed, but she had felt the watcher's eyes on her, had felt their presence.

They weren't malignant, as far as she could tell, but caring and naïve.

And they were probably a product of her deluded imagination, she admitted candidly to herself, but it was nice to think that she had her own guardian angel watching over her.

* * *

><p>She heard a commotion outside her cell. Was someone there? She could see blackness at the edges of her vision, and knew that she wouldn't have long.<p>

She strained to hear, and then froze at the sound of someone opening her cell. Despair threatened to engulf her as she waited with bated breath for the Shade to appear.

Instead she saw a boy. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, and she had never seen him before.

He didn't look like one of Galbatorix's soldiers – their eyes were cold and cruel.

Hie eyes were warm and caring, and shocked when they looked at her, with a hint of determination and nobility.

Arya wondered if she was imagining everything she thought she saw in his eyes.

But she couldn't deny that he had the same caring look that she had always imagined in the eyes of her guardian angel.


	11. Guardian-angel-in-training

**Set after Helgrind. Thanks to xXxGhostRiderxXx who gave me the idea, although it didn't turn out how I expected.**

* * *

><p>Arya watched Eragon discreetly. She had been right to oppose this trip from the very beginning. Now they were stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no way of getting back to the Varden except on foot.<p>

He would argue that she didn't have to come after him, but how could she not? She owed him so much, and he made so many mistakes, got into so much danger, that she had no choice.

She sighed, absurdly weary all of a sudden. She hadn't been sleeping well since... well, since Gil'ead – if those strange hallucinations could be called sleep. She snorted quietly as she remembered her delusions of a guardian angel.

She eyed Eragon as he blew on the fire to start it, cautiously adding more wood, and completely forgetting that he had the advantage of magic. Not exactly guardian angel material.

Added to that, this whole mess with Sloan, or whatever his name was, just proved that he was unqualified to take care of himself, let alone her, or anyone else.

And yet...

She sighed, thinking of the wards he placed around her whenever they went into battle, despite the fact that she was better at casting them than he was.

She was fairly sure that he placed wards around Nasuada and Roran too, and Saphira, of course, and he'd probably add Katrina to that list now that he had rescued her.

He didn't seem to consider Nasuada's bodyguard, or Roran's ability in fighting, or Saphira's scales, or, and this was most annoying, her age and wisdom and experience, not to mention her own magical abilities.

He cast the wards anyway.

It was as though he had this image in his mind of what a Rider should be, and strove to complete that image, no matter how prejudiced or inaccurate it proved to be.

Not for the first time she wished that Saphira had chosen one of her kin to be the next Rider. It was all very well saying that the dragon knows best and that a Rider and his dragon were destined to be together – not that she believed in such things – but this was _war. _A boy trying to compete with the heroes of ages past was not going to help anyone.

Arya returned her gaze to Eragon, who was now building the fire to a roaring heat with a look of intense concentration on his face, and chided herself for being so harsh.

A Rider was not determined by their skill in battle, or their prowess in magic, but what was in their heart. A dragon did not care for fighting or magic; they chose someone based on who they were on the inside, and for all his flaws, Eragon was a good person.

He tried his best to protect everyone he cared for (_even those of us who would rather not be on that list_, Arya thought wryly), and he strove to be the best Rider that he could be, even though he was (in Arya's opinion) far too young to bear the burden that had been so unfairly placed on his shoulders.

A bona fide guardian-angel-in-training.


	12. Change

Anyone looking at Arya when Nasuada was negotiating with the werecats, someone who knew her well enough to truly read her emotions, would have thought that she feared the outcome of the meeting; her eyes were fixed on Nasuada, her hand was drifting towards her sword and her lips were pressed into a thin line.

But they would have been wrong.

The negotiations did not bother Arya. What held her emerald gaze was Eragon.

He stood quietly behind Nasuada, outwardly betraying no hint of the tiredness that she knew he must feel. He was intent on the meeting, his focus unwavering, the very image of a Rider.

Arya hated it.

She couldn't remember the last time that she had really studied Eragon. The first time, had, of course, been at Farthen Dûr, when she had sparred with him.

His skill had impressed her, once she had taken into account his age and how long he had been using a sword for.

His determination had likewise astonished her; she was no stranger to stubbornness – it ran very deeply in her family – but Arya considered herself practical above all else, whereas Eragon was hopelessly idealistic.

He had a good grasp of diplomacy, too, she grudgingly admitted, although she had been furious with him after that Council of Elders business, he had acquitted himself well.

Added to that, he had impeccable morals, as demonstrated by his handling of Sloan, and she admired that quality in him as much as she lamented it.

All of that had never changed.

No, instead he had become quieter. He wasn't the rash young boy that had rescued her, nor was he the infatuated young man that had accompanied her to Ellesmèra, and she mourned their passing.

He was wiser now, and no longer tried to pursue her, even though she knew he still had feelings for her.

He was also far deadlier with sword and magic, equal to any elf in those abilities.

He had changed, and Arya hated those changes. It was as though something bright in him had died, as though some essential spark was being smothered by this never-ending war.

Our afore-mentioned unseen observer would have noticed the tension in her stance, her narrowed eyes and the tightness of her grip of her sword.

For a moment, Arya hated the war with a vengeance. It had taken so many people from her; her father, Fäolin, Brom, Ajihad, Oromis and now Eragon as well.

She wished that she could erase it, wipe clean the slate, and return Eragon to the young, innocent, naïve and hopeful boy that he had been when he had rescued her.


	13. What have I done?

"No, Arya! You will not be the elvish ambassador to the Varden or courier the dragon egg, and that is an end to it!"

Arya had not been expecting such a reaction to her carefully-worded proposal. Her mother had flatly refused to even listen to her well-thought-out reasons. Arya ruefully admitted that she had approached her mother as her queen, not as her mother, and had expected her to reciprocate that view. _After all, _she thought, _she has never acted as a mother to me before, so why should she now?_

"Why not?" Arya demanded. Her mother frowned at it.

"No daughter of mine," she said, in a voice as soft as steel, "will go risking her life in a fool-hardy attempt–"

"This is our last hope, mother, our last chance to defeat Galbatorix. Should we not give our best to it?" Her mother's eyes narrowed and her voice became even more dangerous.

"There are many more elves far more capable–" she began.

"And not one of them has come forwards and volunteered. Glenwing and Fäolin have agreed to be guards, but they cannot handle the politics. An elf from one of our noble houses _must _go–"

"That does not mean that it has to be you!" Arya sighed.

"Then who would you send, mother? We cannot have a half-hearted ambassador – they must be willing to give everything to this cause – as I will." Her mother frowned, but Arya ignored her. "I am proficient in blade and magic and am well able to defend myself, should the need arise. I will be travelling with two elves who are equally able to defend themselves and me–"

"You will not be going, Arya!" her mother shouted. Arya was startled into silence. "I will not allow you to risk your life this way, Arya," she said, with a tone of finality to her words.

"It is my choice," Arya replied, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"You will not go!" her mother repeated, a touch of desperation to her voice. "I forbid it!"

"If I was anyone but your daughter you would see the wisdom–"

"However, you are my daughter, Arya, and I have forbidden this."

"As queen you must see that–"

"You will not go, Arya!" she shouted, bringing her fists down on to the table hard enough to send cracks running through the wood.

Arya swallowed, taking half a step backwards. Despite the amount of arguments she had had with her mother before, her mother had never lost her temper this badly. She lifted her chin and faced her mother, defiance glinting in her emerald eyes.

"I _will. _You may not stop me, mother. I have made my decision, and shall live with the consequences." Islanzadí drew her head back proudly, adopting a similar pose to her daughter's.

"Then live with them," she hissed. "As of this moment you are my daughter no longer."

Arya stared at her mother in disbelief. She tried to reply, but her throat was too dry to speak. Tears filled her eyes at the unexpected rejection and she silently begged her mother to back down. But Islanzadí had turned away from her, her shoulders hunched as if bearing an impossibly heavy burden.

Arya didn't know how long she stood there for, shattered by her mother's words. Neither of them moved. She blinked, swallowed and wiped her eyes, cursing the tears that were running down her cheeks.

"I shall leave in the morning, your Majesty," she said finally.

"Go..." was the whispered reply. Arya bowed and left.

She stopped outside and leant against the wall, her hand rising to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears once more. She shook her head.

_What have I done?_

* * *

><p>Islanzadí let the tears roll down her cheeks as she sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands.<p>

Her heart had stopped when Arya had told her what she intended to do. Until that moment she had had no idea just how much she loved her daughter. Yes, she was troublesome and argumentative, and far too much like Evandar –

She closed her eyes in pain. Her mate had been dead for nearly three decades, and still she grieved for him as much as she had the day she lost him. Arya had only been five then, she recalled, but that memory just redoubled her grief.

How could she have turned her back on her only daughter? Losing Evandar had nearly broken her. Losing Arya would finish the job. How could she have been so stupid?

_What have I done?_

* * *

><p><strong>I've been thinking about this one for a while. Let me know what you think?<strong>


	14. Dear Arya

**Set after the Inheritance Cycle has ended.**

* * *

><p>Arya sighed and rested her head on her hands. Now she understood why her mother had had so little time for her growing up. There was just so much to do!<p>

She had to cement the alliance with Nasuada and Orik, while placating Orrin, who had become even more bitter over Surda's losses. She also had a new Rider to train, who was worse than Eragon at getting into trouble, and she had to reply to Murtagh's infrequent reports of what he had found, as well as managing all of the elves quarrels.

Vanir, the elvish ambassador, was also causing her headaches when he returned to Du Weldenvarden. He would fight any elf who said a word against humans, dwarves or urgals, or who even implied that they were slightly lower than the elves. He had changed completely during his time in Ilirea and knew more of humans than any elf alive, save herself.

Arya sighed and picked up another letter. This one didn't cause any headaches, only heartache. It was from Eragon, reporting on the progress that he was making in the new home for the Riders. It had been ten years since he had left, a mere blink of the eye for an elf, but to her it seemed like millennia. Her heart ached for him every day, and Fírnen could only do so much to comfort her, as he was lamenting Saphira's absence.

She hadn't known how much his absence would plague her. Almost everyday she saw something that she wished to share with him, as Arya to Eragon, not as the Queen of the elves to the Leader of the Riders – like Vanir's fights; she was sure that he would find the change in the elf amusing – but she had no way to contact him. She had tried speaking to him through the mirrors, but that had proved too painful and too awkward to continue. She couldn't just write him letters either.

She had tried so many times to put her thoughts, her heartache, her many problems, on paper, only to find herself writing either far too formally or pouring her heart out onto the paper, and making no sense.

And all of this was layered on top of her aching grief for her mother. She hadn't thought that she would grieve so long for her mother – at one point during her exile she had wondered if she would be able to grieve at all – but even after ten years she would still find herself looking around for her mother whenever anyone called her 'Dröttning', and she had walked into her study many times, expecting to see her mother sat there.

Arya sighed and put down Eragon's report. She needed to solve this problem, and soon.

* * *

><p>It was three weeks later when the first one came. She was working late, or rather, sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, when something had cast a shadow on her desk. She had looked up and seen a grass boat, like the one she had made so many years ago, at her window. She knew that it couldn't be the same one – not only was that one far away from here, but this one was a different design to hers.<p>

It floated towards her and stopped on her desk. That was when she saw the letter rolled up and attached to the boat, in the same way that she had done, just after Fírnen had hatched.

With shaking hands she carefully untied the letter, then unrolled it.

She paused before reading it, and took a steadying breath, wondering why her heart was suddenly doing acrobatics. Fírnen was a constant presence in her mind, his emotions spun into a whirlwind by the arrival of this letter the same way that hers were.

She lowered her eyes to the page and read.

_Dear Arya,_

_Firstly may I apologise for not contacting you in so long, either by mirror or by letter. You may say that I have been writing yearly reports, but neither Saphira nor I believe that they count. I wish to speak to you about Eragon and Arya, not about how well the Riders are progressing._

_I do not have a very good reason for not contacting you, except that I found it too painful to speak to you through the mirror and too difficult to speak to you through words._

_So here I am, trying to speak to you as though we are the close friends we once were; as though there is not miles and miles of sea between us, and ten long years. I am not doing it very well – this is my fifth try._

_How are you faring as Queen? I know that any position of authority is a constant chore, and you never seemed to be someone who was happy behind a desk. I'm guilty of the same thing. There have been so many days where I have longed to jump on Saphira's back and fly far, far away from my responsibilities. But I know that I cannot._

_No matter. I hope that you are well and that the elves are prospering, and that you are not plagued by the same sense of self-doubt as I. _

_I hope that this letter reaches you, as it has to travel very far to find Ellesmèra, but it is in the hands of the wind, and my magic, now._

_Fírnen, please do not feel that I have forgotten you in this letter. Saphira mourns your absence every day and wishes you to know that she still cares for you despite the years you have been apart, and hopes that you feel the same way._

_That is all, I guess. How is Murtagh? I have not heard of him since I left, and I hope that time has healed him a little, and that he has decided against isolating himself from the world, however foolish that hope may be. I'll have to visit soon, to see how he is._

_Atra du evarínya ono varda, Arya Dröttning._

_Eragon and Saphira_

Arya stared at the letter for a long time after reading it. She could almost hear Eragon's voice in her mind, reading those words.

She wasn't sure what to think of his letter, but the longer she stared, the more her smile grew.

She reached for pen and paper. The little grass boat could withstand another journey, and she had a long-awaited letter to write.

_Dear Eragon, _

* * *

><p><strong>I'm not sure which fanfic it was where I first read of grass boat letters, but I think it was a wonderful idea, so sorry to whoever it was that I stole this idea from.<br>**

_Atra du evarínya ono varda, Arya Dröttning = May the stars watch over you, Queen Arya_


	15. Loss

She felt as though time had stopped, in this one, endless moment of grief.

She felt as though her heart had shattered into millions of splinters of ice.

She knew that she shouldn't be here, sobbing into Eragon's shoulder; that she should be asking how he knew this, that she should be paying attention to how the rest of the Varden was coping with the battle, but she couldn't bring herself to move.

She felt as though moving would disturb the splinters of ice in her heart and just make it hurt even more.

She had thought she knew what grief was; she had lost her father, and Ajihad, and even Murtagh, although the pain she felt at his supposed death had been more for Eragon than for him. She had even lost Fäolin – it was easier to say his name now, she noticed distantly, and abstractly wondered why – and she had thought that that had been the greatest loss she had suffered.

But Oromis had been part of her life since the day she had been born. He had been the parent she had lacked, firstly because her father had died, and secondly because her mother had never had time for her. His loss threw her world out of alignment, tossed her off-balance, sent the sky crashing to the ground. How could the world continue to turn when she had suffered such a loss?

So she stayed in Eragon's arms, accepting the comfort that he offered her. _At the least, _she thought grimly, _I will never suffer a greater loss._

* * *

><p>After Urû'baen had fallen, she had received news of her mother's death. At first she refused to believe it. She couldn't believe it; couldn't comprehend how her mother could possibly <em>not be there <em>any more.

When that awful news had finally sunk in, she had cursed herself for a fool. She had just not ever thought that her mother could possibly die. Islanzadí had been such an integral part of her. The person that she was couldn't be understood without knowing about her mother.

She had cursed and wept and denied the truth for as long as she dared, until she had had to sit down and accept the fact that her mother was no more.

Oromis' death had been painful, and Fäolin's had been a steady ache in her heart, until she couldn't bear to say his name, but Islanzadí's loss was agonizing.

Every time she thought that she had finally accepted it, some small word or phrase would send tears running down her cheeks again, and ignite the smouldering embers of pain that was her heart. When she reached Ellesmèra, the mere sight of her mother's rooms had sent her sobbing to her room for about half an hour. Fírnen had tried to comfort her, but he was just a hatchling, and knew very little of grief.

Many nights she would awake, the ache of grief once again in her heart, and she would silently wish that nobody else would ever be taken from her, and bleakly reason that there was little left of her heart to be broken.

* * *

><p>When Eragon left, she knew how wrong she was. Her heart had healed more than she had thought possible, only to break with finality when Eragon announced his plans, and shatter when his ship disappeared over the horizon.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>I'm running out of ideas for more one-shots, so any ideas are welcome! They don't have to be during the books, but they do need to follow the original plotline. Write an idea in a review and I'll definitely try and write something about it. :)<br>**


	16. A place of safety

Arya leant her head back against the chair, pretending to fix her eyes to the pages of her book, when her attention was actually captivated by the soft humming from the other side of the room. She had forgotten that her mother hummed as she worked, and the soft music soothed her, reminding her of a much better time, when she had felt secure in her mother's love, and safe in her father's arms.

Since she had returned to Ellesmèra, and reconciled with her mother, it had become a habit for her to go to her mother's study in the evening. She would read as her mother worked, sometimes with a conversation afterwards, but mostly with just a few words exchanged between the two of them before they retreated to their respective rooms.

For Islanzadí, it was a constant reassurance that her daughter was alive, and safe, even if she hadn't completely recovered from her ordeal yet. When she had heard what had happened, she had wished that Eragon had not killed the Shade, so she could do it herself, far more slowly and painfully.

It had been strange, this sudden anger at the one that had hurt her daughter – this pain at her daughter's pain – but even more painful had been the realization that this was what a mother felt. This was what a mother was – someone who loved their daughter, who was pained to see them hurt and who wished harm unto all those that had hurt their daughter.

A mother was one that comforted, that defended, protected and loved, and she had been so little of a mother to Arya. It had been that knowledge which had driven her to find her daughter, to apologise, to explain, to try and re-build the relationship that they had once shared.

She knew that they could never return to how that had been; they had been through too much, and been apart too long, but in its place, they could build something new. If Arya's imprisonment had taught her anything, it was that even the strongest could be struck down without warning. They were in a war, and her daughter would be on the front line. The very least that she could do was to give her daughter a place of comfort.

For Arya, it was a time of safety. Gil'ead had damaged her far more than she would let anyone know, and she had returned to Ellesmèra with relief. To spend time with her mother, as she had before, was a miracle. It healed her heart, chasing away her sorrow and her pain and gave her a place of safety and comfort, even if it was only for a few hours.

They both wished that they could dispel the awkward silences between them, but at least it was a start.

* * *

><p><strong>I like to imagine that Arya and her mother had time to reconcile and forgive each other in Ellesmera, and this is one of the scenes that I imagined happening between them. <strong>

**Keep sending your suggestions :)**


	17. Nasuada

The first time that Arya spoke to Nasuada was when she was eight years old.

She'd met Ajihad, and knew that he had a daughter, but Ajihad worked very hard to keep Nasuada away from the danger of his work, and Arya rarely saw her.

Until this day, when she was eight years old and had gone looking for her.

Arya had only just arrived in Tronjheim, and was unpacking, when she heard a knock at the door. She sighed, wondering who needed her so soon after she arrived. Even though humans and dwarves weren't known for their courtesy, she had just arrived, and it was only polite to leave her time to settle in. And she had been looking forwards to an evening of doing nothing after travelling for so long; being in Ellesmèra didn't really count as relaxing anymore, because she spent the whole time she was there trying to avoid her mother and dealing with disappointed elves who wanted to be the next dragon rider.

Still, it was her duty to answer if someone needed her help, so she sighed and opened the door. "Excuse me," Nasuada said, "are you the lady that has the dragon egg?" Arya nodded, and Nasuada smiled shyly. "And you come from Du Weldenvarden?" she asked, pronouncing it carefully.

"Yes," Arya said, wondering what point she was trying to make.

Ever since she had first come to Tronjheim, she'd had to deal with the racial prejudices of humans and dwarves, and their not-so-subtle insults, disapproving stares, and half-audible whispers. The most difficult part was keeping Glenwing from attacking them, however many reasons he could have. In the end, both Fäolin and Glenwing had agreed that they would let her deal with it all, and merely followed her everywhere.

"Will you tell me about it?" Nasuada asked hopefully. Arya sighed. If it had been anyone else asking, she would have politely refused, but Nasuada was looking at her so hopefully, with admiration in her eyes, and Arya couldn't say no.

"Where's your father?" she asked. Nasuada sighed, her cheerful expression fading.

"He's in a meeting," she replied. Arya's heart lurched painfully. How many times had she said that? How many times had she wished that her mother would spend some time with her, instead of focusing on the never-ending meetings and requests?

"Come in," Arya said, sighing. Nasuada's eyes lit up and she smiled. Arya returned her smile. She'd always liked children, anyway. Telling Nasuada a few stories while her father was busy would be no difficult task, and if it stirred up old and painful memories, then that was a small price to pay.

* * *

><p>After that, Arya and Nasuada never spoke very often, as Nasuada grew up quickly and was soon by her father's side in many meetings, although whenever Arya looked at her, she always saw those hopeful eyes and that smile, and the desire to hear of lands beyond the shadow of Farthen Dûr.<p>

It was only when Nasuada took charge of the Varden, and marched them across the Hadarac Desert to Surda, that Arya saw the woman she had become, instead of the child who had begged her to tell tales of the elves and of Ellesmèra, and who had looked in awe at the dragon egg.

* * *

><p>Nasuada often wondered how she had had the courage to approach the cold, distant and mysterious elf to ask about Du Weldenvarden, and why Arya had told her stories about the elves. She never knew that it was because Arya knew how difficult it was when your mother or father seemed to pay more attention to their work than you, although when she discovered who Arya was, she had her suspicions.<p>

But she soon forgot what stories Arya had told her, and just remembered that Arya had told her stories when she was younger. Just that fact made her more comfortable around the elf, and she was the only person in the Varden who knew that Arya was more than she appeared to be, until Gil'ead.

Arya changed when she returned to the Varden. She became even colder and even more distant, but at the same time she seemed completely unaffected by her ordeal, and the loss of her two companions, and even Nasuada couldn't tell what she was feeling underneath her suddenly unreadable mask.

Later, after the hall of the Soothsayer, Nasuada felt that she understood Arya much more, and when Eragon left, with Murtagh already missing, and both of them had to stay, and couldn't follow, because of their duty and their responsibilities to their people, Nasuada wondered how she had ever thought that Arya was mysterious.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm not sure about this chapter, but I'm going camping in two days for two weeks so I'll have no internet and won't be able to upload, so I thought I'd better upload this now and worry about what it's like later. Keep sending me ideas :)<br>**


	18. Evandar

Arya couldn't really remember her father.

Oh, she knew that he had always been there for her, far more than her mother ever had been, and that he had read to her every night, but she couldn't picture his face.

His voice, a voice she had heard every day, had slowly faded over the years, until it was nothing more than a faint whisper in her mind, a sound carried away by a breeze, forever beyond her hearing however hard she listened.

All she could recollect was a hand reaching for hers, or stroking her hair as she cried, a sense of comfort and security and the creak of floorboards in her room as he quietly left.

Eragon had once said that he never knew his mother, and her private opinion at the time had been that he was lucky (she was remembering one of her arguments with her own mother), but now she pitied him.

He had never know his mother and he only knew that Brom was his father after the old man died, whereas Arya knew her mother and had known her father, however briefly.

In a way, though, he was still luckier than she was. Wasn't it better to not know a parent at all than to be tormented by half-memories of a better time?

Wasn't it better to never have known your mother than to have been subjected to the cold love she showed you, a child who reminded her so painfully of your father?

Wasn't it better to have known your father as an adult, rather than a child too young to remember him?

Wasn't it better to have been there when he died, rather than finding out from the servants when your mother collapsed?

Arya never had been one for much introspection - "Things that are done it is needless to speak about" had always been the thought she lived by, even if she couldn't remember who had said it – but recently, or rather, after Gil'ead, she had found herself rerunning past events in her mind, over and over again.

Now, as she faced returning to Ellesmèra, without her mother, and all she could think of, all that was in her mind, was the faint memories of those golden days, when her mother had laughed and smiled and her father had walked beside her under Du Weldenvarden's leaves.

* * *

><p><strong>I thought I uploaded this ages ago! It's quite short, but I found it while looking for an essay that I managed to delete by accident (the joys of having a cat sleep on your computer) in between packing. Let me know what you think? <strong>


	19. Goodbye

Arya ran through the corridors, laughing. She'd managed to shake off the guards that had followed her ever since her father had left, and had spent several hours happily roaming the woods, and watching Rhunön at her forge until the sun had set. Now she was headed to her mother's study, to interrupt her work and plead for a story before she went to sleep.

Loud voices echoed through the corridors and she ducked behind a tapestry. If she was found now then her mother would scold her and turn back to her work and it would be so much more difficult to lose her guards the next time.

"Islanzadí Dröttning!" Arya froze. The voice sounded much closer than she would have thought – probably just around the corner.

"Däthedr! Have you found her? Is Arya with you?" Arya winced at the worry in her mother's voice and ducked out from behind the tapestry, running around the corner. She didn't hear what Däthedr said, only that it had something to do with her father.

She stopped abruptly as her mother gave a heartbroken cry and collapsed to the floor in front of her eyes.

The next few hours were a blur of people trying to reassure her and her hysterically crying for her mother, convinced that she must be dying because her mother could solve everything and shouldn't have just collapsed. Finally Oromis came in and sat next to her. "Now, Arya," he said, as she buried her face in his shoulder. "You must be calm. I have something very important to tell you." She reluctantly looked up, tears streaming down her face. "I'm afraid that your father is not coming home."

"How can he not come home?" she demanded. "I don't understand! What happened to Mother?" Oromis sighed.

"Come with me," he said. "We'll try to find out."

When they entered Islanzadí's rooms, Arya flung herself at her mother, who was sat on her bed, her face pale and sobs shaking her shoulders. She caught Arya and held her close, muttering words of comfort to her, even as she cried, and trying to explain what had happened to Evandar.

Arya shook her head stubbornly. Later she would realise how much she had hurt her mother by refusing to believe her. "He can't be gone," she insisted. "He always comes home. Always."

"Not this time, sweetheart. Not this time." Arya looked at her mother, her lips trembling.

"Never?" she asked. "He's never coming home?" Islanzadí shook her head. "Why not? Doesn't he want to?"

"Oh Arya. He wants to come home very much, I'm sure, but he can't."

"Can we go and see him?" Islanzadí shook her head, and pulled Arya close, despairing of any way to explain to Arya what had happened to her father.

"He can't come home, Arya, and we can't see him or talk to him or send him a letter. And he can't talk to us or contact us. We'll never see him again. He's dead, Arya, and that's what dead means."

"I d-don't want him to be dead," Arya said through sobs.

"I know," Islanzadí whispered. "I know."

Arya never remembered when she stopped crying or how long they sat there for. She didn't remember that she had been confused and hurting because her mother was hurting, not crushed by grief. She didn't remember falling asleep to the sound of her mother humming a lullaby. She just remembered her mother's collapse, the fact that her father was dead and that it was that day that marked when her mother became distant towards her.

* * *

><p><em>120 years later<em>

Arya approached her parents' graves alone. Fírnen had never met her parents, but he felt her grief and had wanted to be with her, to support her, but had reluctantly acceded to her wishes, even if he didn't understand her reasons.

She sat between the two trees that marked their graves and bowed her head, feeling a crushing grief overwhelm her once again.

The war had been over and finished for almost a decade now, and everything was peaceful. Arya had exchanged many grassboat letters with Eragon and a few more Riders had completed their training.

None of which explained why she should be here. Arya sighed. She couldn't even explain to herself why she had wanted to visit the graves of her parents. She had never been here before – it had been quite embarrassing to have to ask directions – and she couldn't really explain why. Visiting graves was something that everyone did, that everyone had to do after the war ended, but she could just never bring herself to do it.

Arya sighed. "I guess I never wanted to say goodbye. I never wanted to accept that this was it, that I would never see you again, never hear your voices, but especially, Mother, I never wanted to accept that I would never be able to apologise for putting myself in danger, for everything I did. I never wanted to accept that your last memory of me was of me going with Eragon. I never wanted to accept that you would never know that we won." She smiled sadly.

"I wanted to pretend that there was some alternative to me being queen, that I still had someone I could turn to. The war took them all away from me, you know. First Father and Fäolin, then Oromis, then you, and finally Eragon. I don't really have any friends among those that are left, not close friends. Not people that truly know who I am, who I can turn to when I really need their help. I wanted to pretend that I didn't have to face the world on my own."

She sniffed, fighting tears. "Well we all have to grow up sometime, I suppose." She stood. "Goodbye, Mother, Father. I'll just have to hope that you would be proud of me, that I'm the daughter you always wanted. I guess that's the blessing that will come from this; we'll never argue again."

Strangely, it was that thought that caused tears to spill from her eyes as she stood and turned away, weaving through the forest and not looking back.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I'm back. I wanted to write something about Arya's relationship with her mother before Evandar's death, and it kind of evolved into this. Let me know what you think, and keep sending suggestions :)<br>**


	20. Faolin

**Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? I'm working on a new story now, so expect updates on this to be very slow and infrequent. If you have any suggestions then please let me know, but don't expect immediate results. yes, this is more of a drabble than a one-shot. I tried to make it longer, but it didn't feel right, so this is it.**

* * *

><p>She could still remember his eyes, the way they had looked at her with such warmth, and such patience.<p>

They were what she had clung to in Gil'ead, when all her hope had been lost.

He had loved her. He had protected her. He had given his life for her.

And she clung to her memory of him, with such strength that not even the Shade could tear her from it.

She relived all her memories of him; his laughter, his voice, his smile, over and over, to try and ingrain them into her memory forever.

But as time passed, her memories faded, until she could recall the words he had said, but not the voice. Until she could remember the colour of his eyes, but not the warmth and love that had lived in them.

She could remember what he laughed at, but his laughter was fading in her memory, until she couldn't recall what it sounded like, and a thousand little mannerisms that made him _him _were slipping away.

He had loved her, she was sure of it, but she couldn't remember him saying the words. She couldn't remember seeing it in his eyes, or hearing it in his voice.

Slowly Fäolin was slipping away, until he was nothing more than a ghost of a dream, and all the magic in the world couldn't bring him back.


	21. Drunk

**So, this idea popped up during class and hasn't left me alone. I found myself wondering if anybody had ever written about a drunk Arya before, and then this idea wouldn't leave me alone. I know it's very short. Maybe I'll extend it in the future. By the way, I know nothing about being drunk, so this probably isn't very accurate.**

* * *

><p>Arya knew she was drunk.<p>

Which was strange, because she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she'd been drunk, until this evening, because counting suddenly seemed very difficult and her fingers were kind of blurry.

She knew the first time she'd been drunk was when Fäolin was still alive. They'd been... well she thought they'd been having a picnic, but she couldn't quite remember. They'd been in Ellesmèra, anyway, in the forest, just the two of them, and Fäolin had produced a bottle of faelnirv, which she'd never had before.

They'd just got to the stage when everything was hilarious when they'd run across Oromis, who took the two drunken teenage elves in stride, put up with their giggles, fed them soup, hid the faelnirv, and warned them that they'd have terrible hangovers in the morning. Of course they hadn't listened. And found out that he'd been right, but not before they managed to make a fool of themselves.

The next time had been many, many years later, with Eragon, after Wyrden had died. Of course, Murtagh had cut that short, and they'd stumbled out, still inebriated – because elves never got drunk – to try and fight him. Luckily, Arya was older and wiser, although she had been drunk in the middle of a warzone, so how wise she really was was debatable, so she knew a spell to counter the effects of the faelnirv, even if it was Wyrden's specially strong faelnirv.

Well, the next time had been after Eragon had left, and it hadn't even been her fault, because Fírnen wanted to try ale, and it had been an elvish party, so she hadn't seen the harm in a few drinks. Of course, it had turned into a few more when she got back to her rooms and was crying because Eragon had left, and Fírnen was missing Saphira, and it just seemed logical that it would all go away after she'd finished the bottle. Which it had, but only because she'd fallen asleep halfway through the next one.

"So that's, what, five?" she said in conclusion. Katrina shook her head, or tried to.

"It's definitely a smaller number," she argued. "More like, I don't know, ten?"

"No, more like two?" Katrina shrugged, her grasp of numerical logic rather fluid at this point.

"Yeah, two."

And this time, there had been a problem between the humans and the elves, and there'd been some fighting, although not any deaths, because it had mostly been a drunken brawl, and no serious injuries, apart from the blacksmith, who'd dropped an anvil on his own foot. But there was a lot of bad feeling anyway, with people muttering about elves, and Roran had been injured trying to stop it, and she'd just got a letter from Eragon, so when Katrina showed up outside her room – because she was staying Urû'baen, no, no, it was Ilirea now, wasn't it – with a bottle of wine, the only sensible, mature, responsible and adult thing to do was to invite her in and get so drunk that everything stopped mattering.

Apart from where she'd left that trade document that Nasuada had given her only that morning, because she needed something to draw on so she could explain Ellesmèra to Katrina, and if she'd spilt her inkwell all over it, well she was sure she knew a spell that would clean it up and make it legible again.

At least, she could in the morning.

She hoped.


	22. Roran

**Okay, so I was thinking about what Arya might think of Roran, and it turned into this. I don't think it' one of my best one-shots, but here it is anyway.**

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><p>Arya had never known what to make of Roran. He seemed so similar to Eragon, but then he would do or say something that Eragon would never do and throw all of her perceptions awry. Perhaps that's why she found it difficult to talk to him, not that they ever crossed paths very much. He seemed to feel very uncomfortable around her as well, so maybe it was for the best that they didn't talk much.<p>

The first time Nasuada had included him in one of her war councils, Arya had assumed that it was because he was Eragon's cousin, and the leader of the men from Carvahall. She had continued to assume that until he had disobeyed one of Nasuada's commanders and killed nearly two hundred men.

She respected him far more after that, especially because she didn't like the commander in question.

When he had killed the man – she refused to think his name – who had killed her mother, she hadn't believed it. Roran, a human, defeat a man who had killed an elf? It wasn't possible.

When she finally accepted the truth, she had hated him for a while. Couldn't he have done it sooner? Couldn't he have saved her mother?

For a while she didn't speak to him, or look at him, because, in some way that defied reason, she blamed him. In the midst of her grief, she saw Roran as responsible for her mother's death. She blamed him for surviving when her mother had not.

Until one day, when he came to her, standing awkwardly outside her door, and offered his condolences, and an apology. He had stuttered his way through words that he had obviously rehearsed, without ever once meeting her eyes, waiting for her to condemn him, she supposed, or to rage at him, tell him that it was his fault.

But she didn't.

"I don't blame you, Roran," she said softly, surprised to find herself speaking the truth. "It is not your fault." He nodded.

"I know what it is to lose a parent," he said, clearing his throat. "And I know what it is to blame someone else for their death. Eragon gave me the chance to be angry with him, so well..." He shrugged. She managed a smile in return.

"You're a good man, Roran," she said. "But I'm not angry with you."

"I'd be angry with me," he said. "I am, a bit. So if you ever need someone to talk to, well, I'm here."

He bowed his head and walked off. Arya stared after him, clutching the door frame tightly, and found tears streaming down her cheeks.

In some ways, Roran was far more like his cousin than he could have guessed.


	23. Gods

Many people had asked Arya why she didn't approve of gods. Of course, elves in general didn't believe in gods, but none of them ever argued with priests about it. They just left them to their prayers. But Arya couldn't do that.

The idea of gods infuriated her. How could they not see that they were being ridiculous? Praying to their precious deities...could they not see that they weren't real? None of their prayers ever came true – unless they prayed for something that would happen anyway, like the sun rising the next morning.

As an elf, she'd been raised without the knowledge of gods. Oromis had warned her that many people outside of Du Weldenvarden believed in a god of some kind, but she hadn't realised what 'worship' actually was.

Humans, dwarves, even urgals, believed that there was some kind of 'higher power' that governed their lives, and she hated it.

To be honest, at first she had been intrigued instead of annoyed. The various religions fascinated her, as did their ability to ignore the truth. For the first few years that she served as ambassador, she was intensely curious about every religion. Religion was just so new to her, so unexpected. She found it amusing that so many people chose to delude themselves in this way, and so, so strange.

But she could see the advantages of it. She'd seen people pray – she'd seen the beatific looks on their faces as they'd laid their problems at the feet of gods. She'd seen how relaxed and happy they were when their burdens were lifted from their shoulders. Human lives were so short, and the idea of death so terrified them...they needed to believe in something greater than themselves.

For a while, it had actually seemed very inviting. To lay her burdens on the shoulders of gods...

After a decade or so, though, it began to annoy her. She'd seen warriors pray, and then be cut down. She'd seen widows and orphans stubbornly cling to the idea that there was a reason for everything – that everything was part of some greater plan. They weren't angry at their suffering. She'd seen soldiers whose minds were broken by war. She'd seen boys missing limbs because they'd been drafted in to fight. And they accepted it. Oh, they got angry at their enemies, but not at their gods.

That was when religion first began to make her angry.

That was when she began to tally up the list of the dead, and see how they appealed to their gods...all for nothing.

That was when she began to argue with people, trying to make them understand that there were no gods, because how could gods let them die? How could they let them suffer? How could they let Galbatorix take the throne?

After Gil'ead, and Fäolin, she felt even angrier. These people – these priests and their worshippers – how could they pray to gods that had let her be tortured? How could they pray to gods that had let Fäolin die? How could they say that all of her suffering was 'part of god's plan'?

So, when she found out that Eragon was being 'educated' in the dwarfs' religion, she volunteered to go and fetch him.

Because, if there were any gods, they would have to beg her forgiveness.

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><p><strong>Yes, I know it's been ages since I've updated this...exams are my only excuse, and they're a pretty bad excuse, aren't they? *sheepish smile* So, this oneshot came about because I was looking through reviews for ideas, and someone mentioned what Arya thought of gods. Also, the quote at the end was written by a Jewish prisoner in a concentration camp, and it kind of stuck with me. I wanted to use it somewhere. So here you are. Review please?<strong>


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